Our patriarchy is just more hidden
I stick my head out the window; broad snowflakes dust my face.
Our patriarchy is just more hidden.
“We don’t do that here.”
Our patriarchy is just more hidden.
The 600 women killed by Canadian-born white bread.
The stories not covered,
Their bodies covered by dirt, not even a diligent attempt to hide.
And what sticks in our minds?
Pig farmer.
And what stays in our minds?
Honour killing.
And what is overlooked?
Women are being
Killed
By men.
Expressionless face mouths the damaging, slow-motion words:
“run of the mill domestic violence.”
I stick my head out the window.
If we name the honour killing
We should name the native-killing;
The wheelchair razing;
The nameless-so-you-can’t-be-identified cowardly killings. The
Easy targets.
By any other name.
Our patriarchy is more hidden.
‘Our’ implicates me.
Compelling
Propelling myself to a place with a microphone in front of my face.
Break it down.
Better, build something up around it. We are creators. Engulf it, so it becomes a speck on an old grey stone in a wall – cemented, no longer free to roll, gaining force, picking up dirt, pebbles, an avalanche by the time
it hits.
Build, use your arms, your strength to over power it.
Stare at it and say I know you’re hiding, I know you’re there, and this game
Is over.
I stick my head out the window. Breath.
Is it honour that drives women to be plastered on billboards, for all us to see?
Honour, that keeps us quiet when that sexist joke is told – don’t embarrass yourself it’s just a joke.
Honour that prevents us from parting our lips and making sounds, opening up to the world, that knowledge that we have?
Honour, or is it shame?
By any other name.
